HENRY CARR.
SELECT BIOGRAPHY.
MEMOIR OF TAM O'SHANTER.
(For the Mirror.)
Thomas Reid, so celebrated as Tam O'Shanter by Burns, was born in the Kyle of Ayrshire. His first entrance into active life was in the capacity of ploughboy to William Burns, the father of the poet, whom Thomas described as a man of great capacity, as being very fond of an argument, of rigid morals, and a strict disciplinarian—so much so, that when the labours of the day were over, the whole family sat down by the blazing "ha' ingle," and upon no pretence whatever could any of the inmates leave the house after night. This was a circumstance that was not altogether to Thomas's liking. He had heard other ploughboys with rapture recount scenes of rustic jollity, which had fallen in their way, while out on nocturnal visits to the fair daughters or servant girls of the neighbouring farmers—scenes of which he was practically ignorant. And more—he had become acquainted with a young woman he had met at Maybole Fair; and having promised to call upon her at her father's house, owing to his master's regularity of housekeeping, he had found it totally impracticable.
To have one night's sport was his nightly and daily study for a long time. It so happened that his mistress about this time was brought to bed. Thomas hailed the bustle of that happy period as a fit time to compass his long meditated visit. Mrs. Burns lay in the spence. The gossips were met around the kitchen fire, listening to the howling of the storm which raged without, and thundered down the chimney: it was a January blast. Thomas kept his eye upon his master, who, with clasped "hands and uplifted eyes, sat in the muckle chair in the ingle neuk," as if engaged in supplication at the Throne of Grace for the safety of his wife and child. Thomas drew his chair nearer the door, and upon some little bustle in the kitchen, he reached the hallen, and was just emerging into darkness, when the hoarse voice of the angry Burns rung in the ears of the almost petrified ploughboy, "Where awa', Tam?"
"The auld doure whalp," muttered Tam, as he shut the door and resumed his stocking; "I was gaun to the door to see if the win' was tirring the thack aff the riggin."
"Thou needs na gang to look the night," cried the rigid overseer of Doonholm, "when it is sae mirk, thou coudna' see thy finger afore thee." It was indeed "a waefu' nicht." Such a night as this might give rise to these admirable lines of that bard, about to be ushered into the world—